The psychic pain exquisite, I as daft as tumbleweeds. Numbed of speech. What is what on which you blow? Dan-de-lion, lions...where are they who wait for me. He he. No, he He. How little of this constitutes doings (pl., pluie). Not just summer indolence that overtakes: the Sisyphean task to not think. To breathe. To create of unknown gleanings. How much I miss her. Thrown against no real...So thinned of my own skin, I can barely converse, barely stay still, bare only.
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